Elizabeta Brooke - Never - an erotic retelling of Peter Pan

"Yes, Sir." Despite the disgust she felt, his words stirred something dark inside her, a longing she'd never experienced before. She tried not to think what he'd want of her the next time.

She struggled to sit up, then slid painfully off the table to grope around the floor for her clothes. Warm stickiness trickled down her legs and she wondered if there could be blood. She'd heard there was blood the first time.

"Hurry, Wendee," he said, handing her the panties. "We don't want your mother to suspect, do we?"

"No, Sir," she replied, fumbling with her clothes in the dark, hoping she wasn't staining them. "I'm ready now," she said a moment later, stepping aside as he opened the door and let her out.

"Very good then." He picked up her school case and handed it to her. "I'll see you Monday morning, Wendee."

" Yes, Sir…"

Dee opened her eyes, found her knuckles white on the steering wheel. Sickening excitement still gripped her but there was no time left to calm it. Billy was waiting.

Slipping out of the car, she negotiated the stairs unseen and arrived at his door exactly on time. The hallway was empty and the hood of her navy silk trench coat shadowed her face, but she was careful to knock quietly.

No response. She knocked louder, then after a minute, frowning, knocked again. Voices echoed up the stairwell and after frantically knocking a fourth time, she tried the doorknob. The door swung open at her hand and she ducked inside, shutting it behind her.

Then she looked around.

"So, Mrs Williams — "

"Dr Williams," Dee corrected out of habit, staring down at the blood-stained hands in her lap. It, the blood, was all over her — her face, her legs, her feet, her hair, and smeared all over her coat. On her lap, where she'd cradled his head, its warmth had seeped through to the bare skin beneath, matting her pubic hair and oozing down to mingle with the fluids of her previous arousal. The thin silk of the coat was stuck to her thighs, creating an uncomfortable sensation, and she forced her mind to concentrate on that.

"Right. Dr Williams," said the gravelly voiced detective standing beside Billy's bed. He was hugely obese, and her peripheral vision could detect other people — probably the ambulance officers, having to edge around him in the confines of the tiny dormitory room.

The detective was watching her, she could feel that, but she couldn't look at him. And she didn't want to listen. She wanted to snuggle down into Billy's bed and go to sleep, and never wake up. But she couldn't seem to move, so she remained still, propped against the thin pillows that had cradled Billy's head so many nights. And now, never would again.

"I need to ask you some questions," the detective said, a little more gently, "Are you up to it?"

Dee closed her eyes. The next thing she felt was his vast weight settling on to the end of the bed. The mattress rocked and a memory sparked inside her mind, but it was just as quickly blanketed by the layers of cotton wool that had emerged to protect her. "Dr Williams?"

"Yes."

"Your husband will be here in a moment to pick you up. Can you answer some questions first?"

"Yes," she said dully, not even able to dredge up some trepidation about the coming encounter with James.

The detective cleared his throat, his voice dropping into the impersonal tone Dee imagined they all used for routine questions.

"All right, Dr Williams. What time did you find the deceased?"

"Midnight."

"Exactly midnight?"

"Maybe a couple of seconds after."

"That's pretty precise. Was that coincidence, or was the deceased expecting you."

"He was," she answered, then found herself saying, "Would you mind not calling him 'the deceased'. His name was Billy. Billy McKenzie."

There had been no grief or remorse in her voice. Simply respect for the dead.

Dead.

Behind her closed eyes, she saw again the stream of blood that had flowed from his ensuite into the bedroom, soaking the beige carpet. She remembered standing with her back against the door she'd just burst through, not wanting to walk over and look in that small bathroom. But her feet had moved of their own accord.

There had been a horrible squelching as her shoe had pressed down on that blood-soaked carpet and then…

She opened her eyes to find her head had swivelled of its own accord to face that doorway, and the stain. It was so vivid, and yet so innocent. Like virgin's blood…

"I know his name, Dr Williams," the detective said softly, but his voice seemed to come from a long way away. She was lost — back at the moment she'd stood in that doorway. She didn't react to the detective’s gentle touch on her arm. Nor did she answer any more of his questions. Except one. Just before James led her away, the detective said, "I have to ask you this, Dr Williams. Did you kill him, or was it suicide?"

Dee looked up then. She said, "I killed Billy," but he didn't believe her and neither did James. No-one would believe her. Not that it mattered anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. Not even James' request for a divorce. His embarrassment over her 'indiscretion' and the scandal that surrounded her involvement in Billy's death left her unmoved. She was lost between worlds, unable to enter Billy's and rejected from James'. The idea of a world that contained only herself and the memory of what she'd done was too horrible to contemplate.

The withdrawal of funding for her research project came two days later, and at James suggestion she resigned her post at the University. Uncaring, she signed everything away, scribbling her name on the bottom of anything placed in front of her. Everything she'd worked her adult life for was gone within a week. All except the money.

James' old-world patriarchy had seen to it that every cent she'd ever earned had gone straight into her bank account. He'd been the provider in their marriage, and even at the end of their relationship he took perverse pride in the fact that thanks to him, she would be financially independent. He spoke much of her 'starting a new life', but Dee thought only of escape. The numbness was starting to wear off, and she knew one day soon her emotions would reactivate. An instinctive part of her demanded distance. She had to be far away from the scene of Billy's death before she tried to come to terms with it. Or it might engulf her.

Besides, the Gold Coast had never felt like home. It had always been James ' University she'd worked in, James ' house she'd lived in, James ' car she'd driven. The cumulative effect was claustrophobic. And so one achingly beautiful morning while the butterflies were dancing over her roses and James was out shopping, she'd left his house with only the clothes she wore and her handbag. A taxi had taken her to the airport where she'd boarded the first flight north, arriving at Cairns terminal to blinding midday heat and oppressive humidity.

She'd been dazed for a time, but the taxi driver who'd pounced on her had requested a destination, which in turn had forced her mind to function. Where? She had no idea. But the habit of luxury, fifteen years ingrained, came to the fore.

"Take me somewhere comfortable. Secluded."

The drivers choice turned out to be a private resort. The main hotel complex was huge and almost hedonistic in its appointments. Her bedroom was all soft whites with drifting voile curtains and a canopy over the bed — the bathroom, a dazzling combination of marble and gold. She purchased the clothes she needed from a boutique in the foyer downstairs, and discovered everything else she needed could be provided by room service.

Her days became a routine of breakfast, lunch and dinner in the downstairs Restaurant. Between meals she spent her time exercising in the gym, swimming in the Hotel pool or lying on her bed. Occasionally she'd sit on the balcony, but she preferred the privacy of her room.